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Before Midnight by Rex Stout

I grunted. I couldn’t very well repudiate my matchless memory.

“Are you suggesting,” he demanded, “that verbal dodges are no longer to be permitted in our private conversations? By either of us?”

“No, sir.”

He snorted. “You’d better not. We wouldn’t last a week.”

He rang for beer.

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Categories: Stout, Rex
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